


The Raccoon's Demise

by ecrituredudesir



Category: Furry (Fandom), Original Work
Genre: Ball-busting, Blood, Cruelty, Death, Filming, Gore, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Other, Snuff, Taunting, Torture, breaking bones, breaking limbs, cobbling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 12:04:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13076508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecrituredudesir/pseuds/ecrituredudesir
Summary: A commission for someone on furaffinity.A fox captures an unsuspecting raccoon for her latest movie. The raccoon doesn't make it out alive.





	The Raccoon's Demise

**Author's Note:**

> My commission information is here:  
> http://www.furaffinity.net/journal/8536903/

The scrape of rubber and metal on cold concrete was enough to finally start to drag him out of the heavy black cloud of unconsciousness that had kept him from moving, from seeing, and from hearing anything around him for the last several hours. There’s a canvas sound, the clanking of metal tubes against one another, and finally, the racoon shifted to open his dark ringed eyes. The room he found himself in was dark, with only one source of light so far—the bright, single bulb of a naked hanging lamp focused down on him. The shine of the bulb was enough to blind him at first, the racoon squinting through the focus of it to the shadows around him, slowly letting his eyes adjust.  
  
Coming to his senses was the most difficult part of understanding what was happening. He found himself bound with his hands behind his back, each arm tied to the back of the chair he was sat in, and then his wrists tied together at the small of his back as well. Judging from the constriction of his breath, the rope around his neck also tied in down to where his wrists were met, because moving or struggling too much made it difficult to draw in a breath. There was no movement allowed below his shoulders, with the bite of thick twine cutting against his fur each time he tried to test the limits to find any give in the rope. The same thick twine circled his ankles as well, his legs tied apart to the outside of the chair legs, leaving him motionless where he sat. He couldn’t tell how long he had been unconscious. Judging from the way his muscles ached a bit each time he even budged, it had to have been a few hours at least, tied to the same spot.  
  
“Hello?” His voice was thick with the rasp of sleep and lack of use, cracking as the word echoed in the empty room. The sound of canvas and metal scraping on ground ceased as he let out the noise, lifting his head as much as he could to try and locate the source—not far behind him, it seemed. The sound of someone exhaling softly, perhaps almost disappointedly, reached the curve of his ears. He wasn’t alone in the room, it seemed, and that was enough to both terrify him and make his heart jump in his chest, hoping that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the same person who had put him in the ropes and bindings. It sounded strangely feminine, and that was enough to make him wonder just who it was.  
  
“Please,” the raccoon continued, begging immediately as if it would garner him some sort of pity in the world, as if his begging wouldn’t fall on deaf ears, “please help me. I don’t know where I’m at, or what I did, but I promise you, I’ll make up for it, whatever it was-“  
  
The fox rolled her eyes as she finished attaching the first of three cameras to one of the tripods that she had spent the last few minutes pulling out of a large bag behind him, setting it up for the first view of her victim. Then, she moved around to his right side, taking the second camera and tripod in hand, carefully setting it up at an angle where it’d catch a good view of his right side, leaving very little to the imagination. To the raccoon’s horror, he realized that he’d been stripped of all of his clothing, a thought that only occurs to him in the embarrassment that follows the second light of the room, this time from the camera she was setting up, aimed in his direction. At some point in his unconsciousness, he’d been stripped down to nothing.  
  
It was hard to make out the features of the fox setting up and angling the camera, but he knew that she wasn’t familiar—she was pretty, a fairly petite young woman with soft looking hair and ears, tied up with a neat bow. She hardly looked to even be old enough to kidnap someone, but looks could be deceiving; she certainly seemed to know her way about setting up the technology starting to surround him. There’s a distant glow of a screen that lit up as she connected a cord to the camcorder facing him; he was being recorded. He didn’t know if it was live or not—he couldn’t see the screen, only the glow that it let off in the distance.  
  
“Wait,” he choked out, praying that if he couldn’t get her attention, he could get the attention of anyone who might be watching. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Please, just let me go,” he re-iterated, giving a shaky exhale. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to the camera at this point or the fox, who seemed to still be blissfully ignoring his presence, disappearing behind him. This time, she returned from the other side. A third tripod, and a third camera, this one from another angle just slightly higher than the other. It looked down on him from almost in front of him, and as he saw the little red light surge to life on it, it suddenly felt like he was being stared down by a monster. Some small demon watching him, mocking him in the unblinking crimson of the little power light.  
  
“Please, I don’t know what I’ve done—why are you doing this?” He begged, his gaze darting between the two cameras, then down to the fox who had now stood straight, regarding him with something akin to disdain and outright amusement. She would have been prettier if she wasn’t nearly sneering at him. The look drove a sliver of ice down the pit of his stomach; she was looking at him as if he were prey and she was thirsty for blood. He didn’t recognize her face from anywhere, but now he was absolutely sure that he would never forget it.  
  
“You want to know why?” she asked, almost sweetly as she stepped forward her gaze bright on him. “You were _born_. That’s the only reason why. And just like you were born, you’re going to die.”  
  
The fox laughed at this, a delighted little noise that slips from her, as warmly as if someone had complimented her or given her wonderful news. The raccoon shook in the chair, shaking his head as panic seized at his heart, setting him on edge as he watched the fox roll her shoulders. “No, please. _Please_. I haven’t done anything, I – I won’t tell anyone, just let me go- “  
  
“Let you go? Not a chance. You’re going to be a star and shine bright in your first movie, you know. Right before I break every bone in your body. You’ll be screaming yourself bloody before you die slowly and painfully. But hey, you’re cute enough. I bet you’d win all sorts of awards if there was a film ceremony for snuff movies.” She gives him a little wink, and with his terror renewed, the raccoon started to hyperventilate.  
  
The fox regarded the raccoon, breathing too heavily to try and get out another word, with skeptical disdain, her nose wrinkling as if she had a sour taste lingering on her tongue at the desperation he was showing in response to the news that he was going to die. While she had prepared for a negative reaction, they always provided the same _boring_ expressions at first, as if they still had some sort of lingering hope that they’d be able to escape their situation after being told so bluntly that they weren’t going to leave the room alive.  
  
Only once or twice had one of them done anything other than beg her for mercy, or scream in rage at her, but even the ones that shouted in anger were more _interesting_ than the raccoon who now stared at her with tears in his eyes. Had his tail been able to move from where it was pushed in the space between the back and seat of the chair he was tied to, she was sure it’d be curling between his legs right about now. Knowing she was starting to push him to a real response, though, she let her lips curl up into the grin once more.  
  
“It’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt _so much_ that by the time I’m done, you’re going to be begging me just to end it,” She hummed, moving to do one last check on the camera behind him before she pressed the button to start recording. He was shaking now, his breath barely able to make it past the tight restraints of the rope at his throat with how far he’d restrained himself against it, his head tilting from side to side as he tried to catch a glimpse of where she’d disappeared from.  Intentionally avoiding his gaze, she moved in the blind spot behind the tied male, tilting her fingers gingerly forward to pinch the tip of one ear, digging her clawed thumb into it enough to make him give a bitter yelp, like he was a child trying to peek to early at a gift.  
  
“Sit still and behave,” she chided firmly, her eyes narrowed as she left the soft skin of his inner ear dripping with a few welled droplets of blood, the skin sliced neatly by her thumb-claw. His sharp noise died off into a whimper, which gave her the time to go position herself between the two cameras facing him.  
  
“ _Good boy,”_ purred the fox, her voice dripping with a saccharine venom, one shoulder rolling as she prepared herself for what was to come. She knew she had to loosen up a bit, stretching one shoulder out slowly before she let her shoulder blade roll back with a small _pop._ She let out a delighted little exhale at the sensation, knowing that the racoon was watching every fluid movement of her loosening herself up for whatever was to come--and if it was going to be such a vigorous exercise that she needed to _stretch_ beforehand, he didn’t want to know what kind of physical strain was going to be involved. Finally, arching her back in a smooth circle, the fox straightened herself with a pleasant exhale, her gaze bright as it fell on him again. “There now. Let’s get started, shall we?”  
  
“No,” he started, finding his voice again though now it cracked with a miserable mix of fear and dread, lifting his knees against the ropes, only to let them drop weakly down. He had lost most of the movement and feeling in his calves now for how tightly they’d been bound. It was to no avail, and he dragged his eyes desperately up from where they’d settled on his useless movements to the fox. In the meantime, she had lifted her hand to start recording on one the one from the front, flashing the camera a grin as she took a brief video-selfie to make sure it was focusing correctly. “Please, wait… just… just tell me what I did, so I can-”  
  
“And _action!”_ she chimed in and interrupted, ignoring his renewed round of pleading in favor of pressing the record button on the final camera, which was zoomed in against his torso and lower face. She could almost see in detail in the little camcorder screen where his tears had started to wet and matt the fur of his cheeks, making the dark rings under his eyes even more defined against the brown fur on his lower cheeks.  
  
He pulled hard against the ropes binding his wrists as she tested the last camera feed, turning her head to face him in a way that slipped a few strands of her hair over one shoulder. There was something _dark_ in her gaze, and the steps she took to him were slow. Careful. Seductive.  
  
It was terrifying.  
  
Her approach was carefully acted. She was fully aware of the film she was making, and every movement she made was suddenly plotted out, in control of herself the entire time despite the fact that now, her heartbeat had truly begun to pick up. It was sinking into the racoon that this wasn’t a prank and that her words had likely held a fair amount of truth to them, even if his own death was something he wasn’t quite ready to comprehend. Nothing could truly prepare him for the fact that he was facing the startling realization that she wasn’t looking into his eyes with any pity; she was searching for the _desperation_ that ran tangibly through them, and that was enough to bring such a dark, delighted smile to her lips that he knew that pleading for his life would only _satisfy_ her.  
  
Without warning, the fox pulled back, and in that same fluid motion, she slipped her hand up his knee. To anyone watching, it’d be an undoubtedly intimate gesture--if it weren’t for that fact that when she reached his inner thigh, her touch moved inwards and gripped his testicles with an iron hold. There was nothing affectionate or warm about the touch, and the force with which she holds them firmly is enough to knock the air out of him.  
  
“Don’t get your hopes up,” she chimed, her lips pursing into a sly vulpine smile, and with a flick of her wrist, she _twisted._ The raccoon’s head jerked back, facing upwards as spikes of pain startled to flash all across his groin from the abuse of such a sensitive, nerve-filled area. The sound he made from the resulting feeling was barely tolerable-- it could be called a scream, but it was such a soul-wrenching, _howled_ pitch that she almost felt her ears ringing from it afterwards. Fortunately, the room she had secured for this “home video” was entirely soundproof. Her twist had drawn the skin into a tight spiral, cutting the blood flow off as she pinched the base of where she was making the skin wrinkle and fold against itself.  
  
She hadn’t done more than firmly squeeze the contents of his sack just yet, but the abuse to the skin and the sack itself was enough to leave him in tears. It was not _enough_ , though she was already laughing at how his thighs jerked and twitched in an effort to recoil and pull away from the source of the pain already, trying to free himself before it got any worse. It was straining the muscles already, even ones not normally exercised and used, and that was enough to make them threaten to cramp. The fox found herself disgusted at feeling the squish of his ball sack under her grip, but she knew that soon enough it’d be no different than squeezing around in a bag for broken items.  
  
“Please!” the raccoon shrieked as her twist tightened, and it was only after making him wait out a few seconds of that lingering, enduring pain that she loosened her grip, leaving the sensitive skin to start to swell an angry red from the abuse. Finally, with that particular agony gone, he could actually _breathe_ again, and it came out in rushed and panicked gasps, his head finally lowering to lessen the strain of the rope against his Adam’s apple. He had thought, for a brief moment, that he was being allowed a sliver of mercy. One look to her expression, her eyes clear and _thrilled_ at the pitch of agony that he had reached, told him that he was terribly, terribly wrong. “No, no no-” he started, seeing her pull her palm back again.  
  
This time, instead of grabbing his balls, she slammed her palm down first, the heel of her hand crushing the rise of his balls against the edge of the chair on which they were propped. This time the raccoon couldn’t even muster up another yell, considering the force of the blunt trauma to his testicles had simultaneously stolen his voice beyond a cracking, formless yelp that struggled to even escape from his throat, but also flooded his chest with such a thick nausea that he felt he would throw up on the spot. The tight constraints of rope kept him from doubling over or raising any of his limbs to protect himself, and with a delighted little chuckle, the fox pressed the full force of her weight down against the thin barrier of skin and reproductive organs that kept her from simply pressing against the hard surface of the chair.  As much as she was loathe to get her hands dirty, hearing and feeling the choked gasping of his breathless exhales ruffling the fur at the tip of her ear. Her tongue slips out, curling along her own upper lip as her expression twisted into a sneer.  
  
Her palm pulled back, but not far--in a little succession, she pounded her bare palm down on his balls like she were flattening the air pockets out of bread dough, or tenderizing meat with just her palm. Each rough smack brought him closer to that terrible peak of nausea, though he found even if he wanted to throw up, there was nothing in his stomach to do so; it only made him even more unsure of how long he had been unconscious before he had woken up. It didn’t stop him from hurking and dry retching, his jaw tensing to swallow back and clench as he muffled his little sharp noises. The raccoon was breathing primarily in little whimpers now, unable to get out more than a pathetic little noise before she hit him again.  
  
For the entire process, he fought against the binds, pulling at them until his wrists screamed with the strain and threatened to dislocate from how hard he wriggled his arms. Despite his struggles, it only resulted with shoulders that were so sore it felt like he was pulling the very muscles of his neck, straining everything within his ability to strain. It was a last-resort sort of flail that would have left him sore for days normally, but there’s purpose in his movement. To stop moving was to accept death, it felt like, and it’s only when she’s landed her sixth or seventh blow that the pain radiating through his body makes him freeze, weakened and vulnerable to her onslaught. It was becoming too difficult to properly struggle against him when it came to trying to defend himself when even breathing was painful in the face of the waves of stinging discomfort shooting through his hips. With his protests and flailing subdued by her pressure and the smacks against the sensitive tissue just under his sheath.  
  
“You’re holding back now? When you were screaming like such a little bitch earlier?” The fox questioned, lifting her brows as she straightened her back to rub her thumb along the palm that had been flattening his testicles into the chair. “You’ve got to be kidding me, that’s no fun!” She taunted, huffing as she moved to set her hands against her hips. Rather than abuse him with her hand any more, she moved up to lift her foot--bare, he now saw, with sharp claws tipping each toe. In his terror and the throbbing, lingering pain from the damage she’d already done to him, he could swear he felt his hips recoil, his penis in his sheath feeling like it nearly shriveled, like he was cold or freezing, from the trauma already done to his body.  
  
“Don’t,” he begged, his tone barely above a whisper. “Please, have mercy, please-”  
  
His choked, quiet whispers were cut short as she tilted her knee up, reaching forward to grip him by one of his ears to make sure she stayed balanced and didn’t fall over. The grip on his ear forced his head down, against the rope, but it also made him watch as she set her clawed toes on the very edge of the chair, ever so carefully. The racoon knew it was coming, but before he could vocalize with the tautness of rope at his neck, she drove her claws roughly into his testicles and the fleshy skin of his thighs around it, tearing little ribbons into the skin under her carefully sharpened claws.  
  
He hits a pitch when he cries out that she hadn’t gotten earlier, something that delighted her into laughing again, mimicking his cry as she dug her toes firmly into the squishy, plush skin that was leaking warm red against her foot. Tears were flowing openly from his eyes again, leaking from both corners against the ridge of his snout and down the fronts and side of his cheeks; some were from the misery and fear that ricocheted like a bullet in his chest cage, the rest were purely instinctive ‘nerve’ tears from the damage being done to his body. She was emasculating him, and the more damage that was done, the more his body seemed to be breaking down into an incapability to deal with the pain.  
  
The fox pulled back to look over what she had done so far, finding two long scrapes cut into the skin of his inside thighs, one for each leg. What really drew her attention were the punctures, small and running with blood, left in his testicles. Her foot was shining red with the blood she had drawn with her rough kick, and now there was truly a darker color of bruising under the fur she had scraped off, and a noticeable swelling of his balls. There was damage done, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet. She knew what she wanted to see, and _feel_ out of the other’s suffering.  
  
His head was hanging now, and with her grip being the only thing still holding it up where she could take delight in his stunned and listless features, she made sure to yank his ear up it to where she could see his expression. Her eyes, as wide and wild as the smile that that lifted the corners of her mouth, met his. As he shook again, parting his lips to undoubtedly beg for some sort of relief or mercy again, she stomped down on his balls from above with the full weight of her body leaning into the effort.  
  
This time, she felt something rupture under her foot. She had quite literally busted one of his balls. His eyes went large, as circular as a plate as the size of his irises shrank, and the scream that slips free is blood curdling. Any voice he had been using to plead was ripped from his throat with the force of which that he emptied his lungs. All at once, stomach acid bubbled up his esophagus as the dry heaved with enough force to press it out, and seeing him retch, she had the forethought to turn his head as he vomited up a mixture of his own saliva and stomach acid against his own arm. It left a fiery, burning trail ups his throat, and left a messy drip of saliva from his mouth, connecting to where he’d spat up the substance down the curve of his own arm.  
  
“Nasty little worm,” She scoffed at seeing him hurl the liquid mixture against his own fur. “It’s a good thing you won’t need those anymore, isn’t it? Not like scum like you needed to ever reproduce anyway. Why don’t we take care of the other one?” Her tone comes out in a delighted chime, a warm satisfaction sliding through her as she ground the front of her pawed feet against the squishy area full of damage tissue of his ruptured nut. The other, barely keeping shape next to it, twitched and spasmed in protest from the nerves she had already damaged in it.  
  
He was only mouthing the word ‘no’ now, in between the heaving jerks of air in and out of his entire chest from the bouts of miserable, gut wrenching sickness. There was little noise left in him, the distinct horror rising in the back of his mind at the acknowledgement that the damage she was inflicting on him was permanent and irreparable. The fox slowly pulled back her foot, wiping the slickness of blood from the bottom of her foot on the fur of his foot, as if it was disgusting to let it linger on her for any longer than necessary. His struggles had left his thighs cramping, but that pain was nothing compared to the slow radiation of sickly, too-hot agony that lingered in his crushed testicle. Each time his heart beat, it sent a throb of white-hot blood that seemed to pool in the area, swelling it worse and making it impossible to try and deal with or ignore. The pain was almost blinding, but he couldn’t tell if that was just the natural reaction to a grief so vivid, or if it was from the cloud of his over-worked tear ducts leaving a film of salty tears over his eyes still.  
  
“Oh, poor little crybaby,” the fox mocked, trailing her fingers down from his ear to flick a few drops of tears that lingered on the top layer of his fur, now too saturated to let any more of the salty liquid sink into the dark brown. “So upset to be half a eunuch? Why don’t we give you a matching set, then?” Her words make it sound like she was doing the raccoon a _favor_ , but before his pain-worn, exhausted gaze to rise to meet hers at the promise, she had already brought up her un-bloodied foot to stop and grind her heel straight down into his remaining nut. Whether it was the swelling around the tissue, or the malleable way it’d already been crushed so much, she found some difficulty in making this one pop as the other one had--that only made her more determined, though. The noises he was making were a combination of a high-pitched whine of air that slipped through his nose, his throat too sore from his previous screams, and a wheeze of his exhales. His throat was burning from having forced out raw stomach acid in his nausea, and the pathetic noises were driving her on to finish the job.  
  
“Stubborn, isn’t it?” she complained under her breath, forcing her weight up finally, lifting her other foot to where all of her body mass had focused on that one spot, and the raccoon dug his claws into his own palms when he finally felt it give way. Under her heel, his remaining testicle burst. His shoulders heaved as a fresh wave of acid worked its way up his esophagus, choked back only by the same wheeze-whining that still wracked his sore throat, coupled with a few shakes of raw sobs. His nose was running, and the shallow breaths from his lungs barely moved his chest any longer. He couldn’t draw in air deep enough, and he felt like the blissful world of unconsciousness would take him soon from the pain alone--at least, he could only pray it would.  
  
“Ah, ah. No passing out on me,” she chided, finally pulling her foot back to admire her work. Where his sack had been defined perfectly fine before, a normal size and shape, there now lay only somewhat of a mushy and swelling mess of a man. From the small punctures she’d made earlier, ripped and torn from her grinding of her heel, dark blood still oozed—along with other fluids that didn’t have a clear consistency or definition. He didn’t want to know what the other stuff was. She hadn’t managed to completely flatten him, not with the ugly swelling that was happening to the misshapen skin and contents of his ball sack, but it was very clear that it would never look anything like what it once had again, and that thought alone makes the sound of grief in his sobs all the more heart wrenching.  
  
The fox drank it in like a fresh breath of air, standing straight and dropping her grip on his ear. Her shoulders fully relaxed, clearly thoroughly enjoying herself as she took a few, calm breaths to help her step back from the excitement she had clearly felt when mutilating his most precious assets. Her step back is for another reason, as well—it let the camera get a clear view of the damage she had done. Slack against his bindings and looking dazed with the thick pain that seemed to vibrate and throb through him, he was on display as a broken man for the viewing pleasure of anyone who would see the video long after he was gone. Her gaze wandered from the camera back to where he sat sprawled in the chair, giving enough time for any focus on the scene, before she manually zoomed in on where it was still leaking blood from the torn scrapes.  
  
After a focus on it, roaming all the way up to the raccoon’s slack-jaw, worn expression, down his haggardly rising chest and then to the damage between his legs once more, she let the camera zoom back out before she continued on with her slow saunter to the bag she’d left behind him. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he registered the trail of bloody paw prints that she left on the otherwise pale concrete floor, a little path of red that he knows with some distant horror is his own blood. The sound of rustling behind him alerts him that she was pulling something else from the bag that she’d carried the camera tripods in, but it’s hard to imagine what; the raccoon couldn’t think of anything that could be worse than what he’d already faced so far. It was unimaginable.  
  
Content with herself and what she’d done so far, the fox seemed to even be humming in her satisfied state, knowing that at this point he was close to slipping into shock—that was fine. What she was about to do would be enough to pull anyone out of the depths of such denial, and bring him right back into the moment. When she returned, it was to lean over his shoulder, leaning to whisper in the ear that now boasted caked, drying blood from the little puncture she’d made in the fleshy skin earlier with her claw. “I’ll make a deal with you.”  
  
What little hope left in him seemed to spark, and he shifted, offering a hoarse, croaky: “…huh…?”  
  
With her behind him, he clearly couldn’t see what she had in her hand, or what she was planning, which explained just why she sounded so pleased with herself. “I’ll do something to loosen your ropes a little. If you can get your arms out, you can untie your legs and leave.”  
  
The sharp breath he took betrayed him; he was daring to hope that her words were true, and it was clear in the way life came back to his eyes from the frontal view of the cameras. In response to her little offer, he gave a slow, shaky nod. Even though he doubted he could actually walk in that state, anything that gave him a chance to survive was worth the risk it took to get it. At that point, he believed he was lucky to even be _offered_ that sort of chance, much less worry about what other conditions may follow her cruel game. “Please,” he rasped again, even though he knew that begging hadn’t gotten him very far at all in the situation with her thus far.  
  
“You asked for it,” she reminded with the sweet, charming smile as she looked over his shoulder to give the devious glance to one of the cameras instead, flashing the hammer so that the viewers of her film could see it, but not the one she was about to use it on. With a wince at shifting his body at all with his ball sack still in such a destroyed state, the raccoon sat up, readying himself for the promised advantage of loosening the ropes so he could try to escape. It left him slack, and loose when she lifted the hammer, and brought it down hard on the crook of his elbow. She knew her aim had been spot on, her force just right, because the crack that filled the room proved that the force had shattered the joint and bone connected to it. One well aimed hit had broken his entire elbow. All at once, his eyes went wide again, and if he’d been close to passing out from his pain earlier, the newfound striking agony of having bone collapse against bone and the fractures of his elbow driving into the squishy flesh and muscle around it was more than enough to wake him up.  
  
The cry that tore from his throat is nearly bloody all on its own; thanks to the stomach acid aching against the soft flesh and the bitter screams earlier. He can taste blood on the back of his tongue with this newest scream; it makes him fairly sure that he’d screamed and shouted his throat raw enough to bleed, but that was the last of his concerns. With his elbow unable to support his arm in the bindings, his entire right arm fell slack in its bindings. She hadn’t lied—the rope was a little looser from where his muscles and bones no longer fought in a natural support against it, bending in a grotesque way now that the joint no longer held the bones fixed into place.  
  
She was aware that the slack of the rope was still dangerous to entertain with one arm still intact, though, and she grabbed his left arm by the bicep. His head turned in alarm at the sudden pressure of her grip against him, still trying to cope and deal with the shattering of his other one, and it gave him a full view of the hammer being brought down on that elbow as well. It isn’t a clean break, and she hits just the cap of his elbow, breaking that into pieces under the skin first. It’s enough to make to make him rasp out something that was pitched like a plead, but the noises were no longer coherent, made of no discernable words. Instead, they were raw and desperate, a babbling plead of things that sounded _like_ he was trying to speak, but could no longer draw the sense together to do so. She could imagine if he _could_ speak in that moment, it would be more of the same begging for mercy, and the thought is annoying enough to make her support his bicep once more, bringing up the hammer again to slam it down on the already broken elbow once more, this time breaking it free at just the right angle to separate it from the two bones that met at the joint. Snotty and tear soaked, wide, bloodshot eyes showed her the clear outline of his iris as his gaze dropped in horror to where she held his arm up; he was no longer capable of doing so himself. The fox felt a surge of pleasure at seeing how broken he looked, watching his now useless arm flop this way and that as she wiggled it for him. It flopped almost lewdly from where it was broken at the joint, and his disbelief seemed completely detached from the pained whines he made whenever the broken fragments of bone connected with the muscle stabbed and prickled on the inside, under his skin, every time he saw her move it.  
  
“Well?” She questioned, finally letting his arm drop to hang pathetically as a broken twin of its other at his sides. Where they had jutted out and struggled and fought before, he couldn’t even bring himself to move his shoulder now for the stabbing pains that it brought up through the nerves of his limbs. “Your bindings are looser now. Even a pathetic loser like you should be able to break free from them now. Just wriggle your wrists a little and you should be able to pop them right out.”  
  
The singsong quality of her voice betrayed that she knew just how little he could move his arms without the excruciating stabbing sensation that would slide up both. The groan that slipped from his lips sounded like an insult, the final stages of accepting the fact that she would ruin him permanently and forever sinking in. He was finally getting more _angry_ in his last moments than the pathetic, desperate bottom feeder that she was so convinced he was. She had no doubt that if he was a little more coherent instead of living as an incarnate of pain in that moment, he would have clearly called her a bitch.  
  
“What was that?” She almost cooed, brushing her hand against his cheek once more as she moved from her position behind him to face him, finally moving down to her knees in front of him as she cradled the hammer to her chest. “You’re so pathetic that you can’t even escape, even after I’ve made it easier on you? Don’t blame me for your failures. It’s your fault you’ll die, then. But first…” Her gaze fell from his features down to where her hand had dropped to his knee. There were patient touches there, tracing the line of his knee until she found where the kneecap divided into two along its natural forming line. He shook his head, trying to convey one last desperate attempt at saving some preservation of his body, but by then, she was already lining up the hammer to mark where she wanted her blow to land.  
  
It was much easier than breaking an elbow. She had had to hit the elbows while standing up, at an angle, while she’d tied the knees to be completely immobile. His muscles were so strained and worn from struggling during the duration of his ball-busting that he couldn’t even muster up the strength to wriggle against the ropes. She was able to hit down, hard, from the front like she was hammering a nail into a wall instead of shattering bones. The crack echoes in the acoustics of the dark room once more, and instantly, he can see that the movement of the hammer hitting the skin and breaking the bone had driven the shattered fracture of the bone that had been connected his kneecap up through his skin. It jutted, white and pink and shining with the red of blood from the fur of his knee. It was a morbid sight, but the fox simply glanced up with a calm smile.  
  
“Whoops. Some poked out. Good thing I have this to put it right back in, right?” She held up the hammer in a grand gesture, her sharp teeth flashing as she brandished it at a new angle, beginning to tap down on the little sliver of bone that protruded from his skin like it was an actual nail. It did several things—first, the groaned little noise that escaped him suggested that moving the bone back into the shattered remains of his knee drove it openly against already damaged tissue and other shreds of bone. Each little tap of the metal on the raw bone also sent shocks of discomfort and agony though his now-twitching leg, the overstrained muscle trying to adapt to the little hammering vibrations that send pain all through the bone that had been connected to his kneecap. A few of the taps chipped off tiny pieces of the protruding bone, falling against his knee and into his fur, but judging from the strange, protruding lumps that pressed out from his swelling knee once she’d driven the bone all the way back into his leg, there were several things misplaced with the angle she’d hammered it back in at. Even though it was clearly not right, several things out of alignment, she glanced up with a pride in her eyes, as if she’d created a work of art out of his destroyed kneecap and tendons.  
  
“There we go,” she announced, as if she’d put a band aid on a crying child’s scraped knee. “And one more.” She had to avoid the urge to make a _Misery_ joke, leaning back to give a broad, side-ways swing to the very side of his knee, making sure that his leg cocked out sideways, just a little. She’d practically cobbled him in two, effective swings. Something must have been driven against a raw nerve, because as she pulled back from the first destroyed leg, she couldn’t help but notice the uneven, seemingly random twitching of his toes on the foot below her handiwork; in a passing thought, she wondered if his fingers were twitching similarly behind his back. The thought made her snicker, before a little movement brought her before his other leg, the last remaining, intact limb on his body. Not for long. The raccoon’s tongue was lolling from the side of his mouth by now, as if each breath was getting harder and harder to take in for the pain that just as quickly forced it from his lungs. The look in his eyes screams defeat—weary, broken desolation that had the only comfort of knowing that if she kept going, there wouldn’t be much more to break soon enough.  
  
“Wouldn’t want the same mess as last time, right?” She offered, tilting up a bit. Instead of hammering straight forward as she had with his other knee, this time she had the forethought of moving to swing the hammer _downwards_ , similarly to how she’d had to do against his elbow. This time, though, his knee was held firmly in place by his foot on the ground, and it could slide or bounce nowhere like his hanging elbows had. It was held fast in place, and watching the hammer connect to the knee downwards was like watching a tie blowout. It reverberated downwards through his knee, flattening the cartilage outwards, driving it down into the bone of the leg below it. The raccoon coughed bitterly—a combination of trying to moan to vocalize his pain so that he could lessen it somehow, but being unable to from the way his poor throat had been shredded by his own sounds of agony thus far. One blow had done it for that knee, any more would have been pounding it into a fine mush of bone and cartilage splinters much akin to what she’d done to his second elbow.  
  
Pulling back to admire her handiwork once again, she noticed the fading light in her prey’s eyes. As much as she’d so thoroughly enjoyed herself, it was about time to end her film. Tutting softly, she finally stood. The entire process had been intensely pleasurable as an experience for her, and it was time to make sure she got the maximum amount of enjoyment from the climax of the movie as possible.  
  
Settling on the angle that she wanted to work from, she yanked back his head to face up at the blinding light, and stood at his side. With one hand still holding his head back the tuft of hair between his ears, she leaned forward from the side, pulled back the hammer, and swung it straight into the flat plane of his chest. He wheezed outwards, exhaling sharply as the air was knocked from his lungs _literally_ this time, and there was a small _crack_ of a noise that makes her rather sure that she’d managed to hit a rib her first try. The even rise of his ribcage faltered, and that meant the pressure had driven it close in to a lung, but when his breath didn’t start rattling, she relaxed—nothing had been punctured, not yet at least. She didn’t want to end it _too_ quickly, so she started swinging a little lower.  
  
The hammer connects again with the soft flesh of his belly this time. It sank against the flesh, but she knew the pain it caused from the way the muscles twitched and flexed there in response. Despite wanting to drag out his final moments, the fox also found herself impatient at the lack of response from the first blow, and that was when she _really_ started to lay into him, beginning to beat him with a vigor with the hammer with no hesitation or restraint now. It wasn’t like her to go wild, though, and each hit is sure to hit the mark of his stomach, bounding against his intestines, his stomach, every organ that could easily take a beating from such blunt force trauma. By the time she was done, she was going to make sure he had little left inside of him but an unrecognizable soup of former organs. She knew she’d punctured a few things when some of the blows of her hammer refused to bounce back, leaving deep divots of caved-in flesh that refused to rise back. Though some marks were swelling into golf-ball sized knots, it’s when he starts to shake that she knows that she’s done enough damage to end him soon. Whether it was his stomach rupturing and sending what was left of the acid inside of it through his blood system, or another organ that could no longer help purify his blood from toxins, something was failing within him. Tossing the hammer aside, she moved to lift his head again, his eyes wide and blank as he descended into shock, what muscles he could move in his body still twitching as he started to seize. Above him, proudly, the fox displayed her work as the last of the raccoon’s final moments were captured on video. A shameful, broken form quaking in her hold until finally, his movements ceased as death claimed him.  
  
Once his body went limp, hanging from the ropes that had kept him from flailing or struggling in the throes of his last few hours alive, she dropped her hold on him, and moved to shut the cameras off.


End file.
